


The Fatalities of Fame

by momomasoch



Category: Glee, Hollywood (TV 2020)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Sex Tapes, Underage Sex, Vomiting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: When Raymond Ainsley, the director, the rumored homosexual, offers Kurt a starring role, in exchange for a nude scene—he struggles for how to refuse.
Relationships: Raymond Ainsley/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	The Fatalities of Fame

**Author's Note:**

> According to sources, the mini-series _Hollywood_ is meant to be optimistic and aspirational, but I decided to write something with the opposite effect. The series has not been released yet, so Raymond's personality is mostly speculation.

Hollywood smells of paint: the thick horse-hair brushes dripping with turpentine and oil and color, blotting the sheets of scenery—the actresses, triplets of almost-identical blonde girls in nylon stockings to sell coffee filters, leaving red rings of matte lipstick smears on the cheeks of their favorite directors—and the _men_ : handsome and bronze-muscled and sculpted body hair in packages of suburban fathers or do-good sons.

Kurt tries not to glance around as twelve of them, all extras in a commercial for cigarettes, share a single dressing room packed together, all California-sun-warmed skin and masculine bittersweet odor. Mostly slender and pink-fleshed boys: college youths who could pretend to be a good decade below that, and Kurt is the youngest of them all. The commercial occupants have a sole aesthetic: frosted chocolate-bright hair, curled primly with so much crisco it wets the ears, with baby-blue gazes, and of short stature. 

Among the brunettes, the leading man is an all-American blonde: broad-chested, a lemonade-pink sweater tied loosely around an alligator polo, who is directed to smoke the brand-name cigarette for a few puffs. He spat at Kurt when they crossed paths—and Kurt, at the star's insistence, was banished to the back of the crowd of candied men.

Kurt is barely glimpsed in the dailies: a hand, a lash, a shoe; silent and faceless, for the intents of the advertisement. So when Raymond Ainsley, the thick-curled director with a helmet of blue-black locks, the rumored homosexual, the charming lover of the screen, offers Kurt a starring role, in exchange for a nude scene—he struggles for how to refuse.

* * *

The afternoon before the shooting of their own little moving picture—Raymond picks up Kurt and drives to the local milk-bar, an ice cream shoppe, for what is supposed as a pitch meeting. Together, they are led into a vinyl booth of faded scarlet, scuffed from the shoes of previous customers. Raymond lounges in mustard-yellow slacks, a pale cap-sleeve shirt, a watch fastened around one thick wrist, dark with hair—Kurt is wearing department-new clothing: shoes pinching his toes, a nautical blouse, anchor-embroidered trousers. 

Raymond asks him, in butterscotch-smooth tones: “Have you ever performed privately for a man?”

Kurt drops his sundae in his lap: neapolitan tri-color scoops tumbling from the spoon, missing his mouth, hot fudge puddling at his genitals—it hurts and it is humiliating and blotting with napkins only smears the mess: it looks downright fecal, and his appetite weakens with his consent. Whipped cream at the corner of his lips, a banana sliced in two long halves sitting in the glass dish, a garish stripe of strawberry sauce staining his fingers—he has never felt more childish. Rather than answering, he tries another subject: “Mister Ainsley, do you have a wife?”

"Do you have an Oscar?" Raymond replies, merely glancing at his watch; the time must be terribly important. “I need to get gas for the car, before we arrive at the set.”

* * *

Kurt’s mouth is still half-numb from the ice cream, when Raymond kisses him, his tongue hot and eager and practiced. The camera is filming, thirty-five millimeters, the cinematographer rolling levers in the office. A kiss was not in the script—the wet froth of spittle and the flavor of sweets and his ruined attire sticking to the bare flesh beneath. Raymond holds the whole of Kurt’s face with both hands, protruding tongue still slipping down the boy’s narrow throat, as if trying to plumb the final crumbs of crushed peanuts and wax-coated maraschino cherries.

Kurt groans—or moans—trying to push away the pair of mannish hands. Raymond’s thick brows pinch together, briskly tightening his hold on those wriggling shoulders, before crisply stating: “Do you know what Garland went through to be in a picture? She certainly didn’t eat sloppy ice-cream sundaes. Take your clothes off.”

"No. I won't." Kurt laces his sticky fingers together, glancing downwards, protesting. "I can't. I won't do _those_ kinds of pictures."

Raymond's upper lip curls, slightly furred from morning stubble sprouting through shaven skin. "It's not for that. It's so I can see how the costumes would fit you. How do you expect the costume department to take your measurements?"

Blushing, chin pressed to his chest, Kurt peels off his clothing, until he is standing in a pair of elastic cotton-pale underwear and socks. One, then the other, until only the jejune briefs cling to the bony crevices of his pelvis, the tender curl of his flaccid boyhood. Then those, too, come off—his little cock nestled between hairless, trembling thighs. 

But Raymond does not touch him further, merely studying—directing Kurt to pose in this or that position—to grab his own knees, to bend over as much as he could, to part his buttocks. And before Kurt could gather up his attire and leave, Raymond unfastens the buttons at the front of his slacks, withdrawing his erection: bulbous and palpitating, a groomed patch of thick hair at the base, damp and pungent with the reek of pre-come. Raymond—in an almost reasonable gesture, pinches Kurt by the chin. "This is for expanding your lung capacity. Open your mouth."

Kurt cannot fit the pucker of his lips around the crown: he accidentally scrapes the squarish corners of milk-teeth against the leaking head, and Raymond impatiently takes a knot of caramel hair, and presses upwards, inwards, into that warm mouth. His cheeks stuffed and jaw aching, Kurt’s petite tongue tries to stroke, suckling, _strangling_. Wheezing through his nostrils, his mouth is brutalized, deflowered, defiled by Raymond’s thrusts, aiming deeper, for tighter, hotter pressure, past the rows of pearlescent teeth and struggling tongue. He comes with a grunt, and Kurt somehow swallows it all, salted and bitter and awful—and spits it up afterwards, as Raymond combs fingers through bedraggled chestnut hair, coaxing him. “A star always swallows.” 

Kurt tries once more, sipping the thick concoction of semen and smegma and sperm, and he manages to hold down half of a mouthful. It oozes down his throat, flavored with his own bile, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

It tastes like fame.

* * *

"Where's my script?" Kurt coughs, his tone soft, his throat sore and puff-pink.

"I'll see you on Monday. You can have another audition, then." Raymond pays the cinematographer in slick emerald bills, a thick stack of them. "I have somewhere to be. Casting agents, collaborative directors, other actors. Dinners and drinks—getting the funding for films."

"But do I have it? The part?" He insists, still naked and damp-mouthed.

The other says, firmly: "I want to hold another audition before I decide. I could bring in another actor, for you. As a chemistry test."

"I can read lines with co-stars, but I'm not going to act in some—some _adult_ picture." Stepping into his trousers, Kurt feels dampness glimmering between his knees: star-dust, as the opposite male would declare it. "This was one time only. I didn't want to—" He grapples for the word, scripted protests tumbling from his thoughts. 

Raymond raises a brow in a mockery of impression, adjusting the waffle-knit of his shirt, smiling tightly. "Listen. Your artistic _purity_ and all of that are intact. Did I touch you? Did I pinch you on the ass and send you on your way, down to the secretarial pool? There are worse men, for kids like you. You'll be in _a_ movie. You can't complain about the details."

"I want to be respected!" Kurt bursts, "And I can't be respected in a—piece of _pornography_!" He snatches hold of Raymond's suspenders: they snap, and the director takes the actor firmly by both fragile wrists, ginger gaze narrowing in displeasure, dark curls rising from the warmth of their shared breaths. In the stuffy office of their temporary set—sits a walnut desk, a well-used Royal sleek with licorice varnish, and a tin garbage can with crumpled tissues, stained of vomit and come. A golden imitation Oscar is placed stoutly atop a pile of rough drafts, bleeding scarlet from corrections; from an open drawer peeks packages of foil-encased condoms. A sort of creative kingdom a nobody extra would never enter without the guidance of an industry king. 

"You'll be _respected_ about twice a day, when we roll your film in a smut theatre. And another—and another—a _nation-wide_ release." Raymond releases Kurt, giving him a little push—more of a shove—at the dimples of his back. "I will see you next week for your audition. Then—by my own patience, listening to dozens of you little upstarts each _week_ , pounding at my door—I can make something of you in this town. Starting with a decent blowjob." Raymond's expression brightens, all boy-glamour and prestigious etiquette once more, the sort of waspish vigor a paparazzi photograph would capture, during a public supper. "My assistant will call you."

Kurt, _pink_ and _phlegm-clogged_ and still reeking of _sex_ , barely has a moment to wipe his raw nose, before the door is shut in his face.


End file.
